


SAFE PASSAGE

by DrTanner



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrTanner/pseuds/DrTanner
Summary: Here's some Wraith/Male!Reader for you. Just, you know, in case that was a thing that you wanted. You've got it now. I'm really sorry about this.Also, this piece is completely unedited and hasn't been read through or beta'd by anyone. I can't guarantee its quality or pretty much anything about it. Again, really sorry. Have a good night, everyone. ( b ._.)b





	

In the Nightmare, things have to be done a certain way. It’s a bizarre place, not built on logic, but instead wrought out of some weird, terrifying delirium, and, as a result, it holds certain perks for those with the guts and the savvy to barter for them. There are rites and rituals to be performed, contracts to be weighed and rules to be lawyered, and as long as one is  _ technically  _ obeying the Entity’s otherworldly laws, there’s a surprising degree of wiggle room to be found.

But things have to be done a certain way.

That’s why, when you see the Wraith, you have to run from him. You have to, because there’s no guarantee that he’ll recognise you, and the mistake you once made by approaching him with the assumption that he would is one that you aren’t prepared to make a second time. So, you have to run from him, and you have to keep running from him until you hear him stop somewhere behind you, and even then, when you turn around to face him and let him look at you, you have to be prepared to start running from him again if he makes a move toward you. 

You tell yourself, as you stand there with nothing to shield you from this monster but the tall grass around your feet and the smoke billowing between you from the oil drum fire a few feet away, that you’re buying time for your friends. That’s the purpose of this stunt; you’re making a distraction of yourself to give your buddies some space to find and repair a few generators, maybe get a gate open if you’re all very lucky, and that’s all. You’re an old hand at this by now, so much so that, after a few moments of this tense standoff, you can feel confidence fluttering in your chest.

The two of you regard each other in silence for a short while longer, and, watching the Wraith’s head slowly tilt to one side, you wonder what it is, exactly, that he’s looking at you with. Interest of  _ some _ kind, presumably, but he’s difficult to read, even for you, and you expect that he probably always will be. Perhaps it’s better that you don’t know what he’s thinking, and, as he gently moves to tilt the other way, you mimic him, mirroring his movements.

Because you can’t  _ talk _ . That’s another rule. Nobody told you that it is, but you feel it in your gut. It feels so much as though this tenuous connection you’ve made will fall apart if you try to funnel words through it that you daren’t try. Instead, there’s something else that you have to do. 

You have to touch him. 

You have to approach him, now that he is signalling to you that it’s safe to do so, and you have to reach out and touch him. That’s the way that this is done, and it seems that he understands it, too; it would be all too effortless for him to be deceiving you in this, drawing you in close enough that he can strike you down and splatter you all over the  dirt - but he hasn’t lied to you yet.

Still, as you edge quietly and cautiously towards him, hand gingerly outstretched as if to disable some trap, you are ready to run from him. Because you have to be. You’d be a fool not to be, and though he remains perfectly still, appearing to wait quite patiently for you to come to him in your own time, trusting him completely would be beyond senseless, no wiser than trying to do the same with a wild animal. However, he’s still standing there, waiting for you, when your fingers finally brush the rough, tattered fabric of his cloak where it covers his chest, and you are no worse for wear. You’re within arm’s length of him now, although it’s  _ your _ arm’s length, not his. He stands almost fully two heads taller than you, and his reach is considerably greater than your own. You’ve been easily within his grasp for far longer than you realise already, all without harm or incident. 

Once again, he has not lied to you.

As the distance between the two of you is finally, softly closed, you find yourself looking up at him, looking down at you, and, with the same silent, deliberate deftness that distinguishes his every movement, he now mimics you, softly and purposefully lifting his hand to bring his finger lightly to the middle of your chest. 

With that delicate touch, he and you have made an Agreement, not for the first or last time, and it’s after the Agreement is made that things begin to be turned on their head. 

For instance, now that the Agreement is made, you must make sure that you most certainly  _ do not _ run from him - you don’t want to give him any reason to think that he needs to chase you - and, even if you did, it wouldn’t be  _ him _ , strictly, that you’d be running from. Your fellow survivors are out there, somewhere, doing whatever they need to do to win the Entity’s wicked game, and, whilst you’re only doing the same as they are, you’d prefer that they didn’t know  _ exactly _ what you’re doing. You need the Wraith to follow you to some place where you won’t be seen, but every time you hear a noise that might be one of your friends creeping nearby, you banish the urge to break into a dash. You mustn’t run.

Luckily, you don’t have to go far. Wherever the Nightmare takes you, there’s never any shortage of misty, secluded corners to hide in, and anticipation is already tugging at your loins by the time you spot the up-ended cable drum tucked away behind some crumbling section of a wall. 

But of course, you’re only doing this to help your friends. 

As always, he’s right there behind you, calmly walking after you. You get the impression that he doesn’t care about being seen as much as you do, that this is a courtesy that he reserves for you. He is nothing if not incredibly patient, and perhaps that’s why you’re able to play this game with him at all - after all, a killer though he may be, there’s nothing to stop him from being honest, or patient. These things aren’t mutually exclusive, you’ve come to appreciate. Or perhaps, for him, this is part of the Agreement. You may never know.

What you do know is that, although your goal is to take up as much of the Wraith’s time as you can to give your fellows the best possible shot at escape, you can’t wait anymore. There’s something thrilling and maddening about this heady cocktail of fear and arousal, and as soon as you’re close enough to lean against that cable drum, you’re reaching for your belt and hastily unbuckling it, your heart pounding so fiercely in your chest that it makes the blood roar in your ears. By the time you’re bending over with one elbow on the flat wood of the cable drum and pushing your battered cargo pants down just enough that you can reach between your legs with your other hand, your pulse is already throbbing urgently in your cock, and you know, really, that you’re kidding yourself with these ridiculous, sanctimonious thoughts of altruism.

You never were a good liar, were you.

You barely have time to glance over your shoulder before he’s there behind you, his hips grazing your buttocks, and his hands, so much larger and stronger than your own, coming to rest noiselessly on the rough wood a few inches from your sides. There’s not much time now, and, spitting on your fingers, you rush to prep yourself as best you can - goodness knows, he’s not going to do it for you. It’s just as well that you’ve become rather proficient at this, and after only a little while, you’re relaxed enough and wet enough that you can just barely push two of those fingers into your anus. You give a stifled whine, and that whine, it seems, is a cue for him to start grinding against you. 

You quickly withdraw your hand for fear of obstructing him. He leans into you roughly, rubbing against you to get himself hard, and it’s somewhere between bracing yourself against the cable drum to push back into every roll of his hips and listening to the rhythmic, ragged sound of his breathing that you realise you can feel his erection under his clothes, pressing into the cleft between your buttocks. This is the nearest thing to foreplay that you’re going to get, and your hand finds its way to your own stiffening flesh without you even having to think about it.

Amongst all of this, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s sparing his left arm, not resting his weight as evenly as he usually would. It’s the awkwardness of his motions that originally drew your attention, but now you’re wondering how on Earth somebody could have managed to hurt him. You didn’t think it was possible. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it’s something else. Whatever it was or is, though, you don’t get much time to think about it; he barely stops moving for long enough to unfasten himself, and a moment later, the slick, wet head of his cock is pressing persuasively against your entrance.

Spit isn’t a great lubricant. You bite your lip as he pushes gradually into you, his strange, unearthly voice lifting into a deep groan through every burning inch, and you fight to keep your own voice muted beneath him. Your friends are out there somewhere, and you don’t want them coming to “rescue” you. 

The pain isn’t so bad, though. Since you arrived here for the first time - and it feels like an eternity ago, now - you’ve endured so much more, so much worse, and this, the uncomfortable friction, the unnatural feeling of fullness as your body struggles to accommodate him inside you, is hardly anything. Compared to what you’ve suffered before, this is nearly nothing, just enough to get the endorphins flowing. Just enough, you shamefully admit, to make it feel good. If anyone “rescued” you now, you’d be disappointed.

He pauses to reposition himself, sinking to his elbow on the right side, to relieve his left. It puts his chest almost at your back, and you become keenly aware of just how trapped you are. You couldn’t leave if you wanted to. He shortly begins to move in earnest, however, and then it’s a different story entirely; any thought of escape vanishes from your mind as you redouble your efforts to push back against his thrusts, forcing him deeper inside you, and savoring the sensation as he withdraws again. You feel his hand on your left hip, steadying you, and you try to move your feet just a little further apart, try to spread your legs just a little more, whatever you can do to let him further in.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep yourself from moaning out loud. He’s rocking slowly against you, casually, almost tenderly, as if he were making love to you, this inhuman monster that would gladly murder you and all of your friends on any other day of the week, and you’re revelling in it. This is, truthfully, what you came here for, and to pretend otherwise would be deeply dishonest. Finally, you can’t quell your voice anymore, and your breaths are soon edged with immodest, lascivious sighs, muffled by your jacket sleeve.

God, you want him to come inside you. You want him to fill you up. Before long, it’s all you can think about, and it’s all you can do not to beg him out loud for it. You don’t need to, though. You know you don’t need to. He hasn’t disappointed you yet.

The stark and sudden jolt back to reality when he pulls out of you, then, feels like some kind of horrible betrayal, and you immediately turn to look over your shoulder at him with something approaching heartbreak crossing your features. He didn’t finish, you know he didn’t, and as you look up at him, looking down at you, your immediate worry is that he’s heard someone approaching, or that the sound of a generator blowing somewhere has grabbed his attention. 

As it turns out, though, you needn’t have been concerned. A heartbeat later, he’s grabbing you and, with unnerving ease, his expression as unimpassioned and dead-eyed as ever, turning you over and forcibly dragging your cargo pants off. He wants you to face him. 

This, while certainly not something that happens often, isn’t completely unheard of. He’s done this to you once before, but back then, he’d done it to pick you up and fuck you against a wall. You willingly spread your thighs for him then, and you do it again now, chest heaving as you allow yourself to lie flat on your back on the upturned cable drum, letting your head drop. He’s between your legs, then, and as he enters you for the second time, you welcome him in, folding your legs around him, stroking and squeezing him, trying to encourage him. 

Once again, he does not disappoint you. 

This time, when he drops to rest on his elbow, it’s a very different situation; you’re not tall enough to come quite face to face with him, and you wind up nearly enveloped in his cloak. You try to hold onto the cable drum when he begins to thrust into you again, but it’s too wide for you to comfortably get a grip on it, and all you can do, you realise, is put your arms around him, grabbing desperate fistfuls of that rough, filthy cloak. He can do whatever he wants with you now - as if he couldn’t in the first place - and your whole body moves with his, with every roll of his hips, as you listen to the thundering of his heart and the growling, grating rattle of his breath, your grip becoming so vice-like that your fingers shortly begin to cramp. Smothered by him like this, you can moan and sigh and whine as much and as loudly as you like, and it feels as if it’s all you’ve ever hungered for. 

At some point, you notice his hand cradling the back of your head. He’s holding you tighter, moving in and out of you faster, panting more loudly - he’s getting close, and his pace is quickly becoming relentless in the name of it. Your thighs tense as you cling to him with everything you’ve got; you’re so ready for this, you’re  _ so ready, _ until he’s bucking against you with telling force and you know, finally, that you’re about to get what you came for. 

As always, it’s the anticipation that gets you, and you can’t hold out any longer. Your back arches, the muscles in your abdomen pull almost painfully taut and you bury your face in his shoulder as you orgasm harshly, stifling yourself as best you can, and at the same instant, he thrusts into you one last time, so eager to drive himself as deep inside you as he can that he brings one knee up onto the cable drum, putting himself almost fully on top of you as he shudders and ejaculates with a half-strangled snarl. 

And then, after the few moments it takes your climax to wash over you, it’s over. 

The Nightmare, suddenly, as the adrenaline begins to drain out of you, sounds uncharacteristically silent except for the sound of quickened, exhausted breath, and your own racing heart. You’re still trying to gather your senses as he picks himself up, once more propping himself up on his hands rather than his elbows, and at last, you can breathe freely. Your own arms aren’t long enough to reach him anymore, now that he’s upright, and, in spite of your better sense, you find yourself sitting up to follow him. The Nightmare is cold, and, even if it is only because of your own body heat having been trapped between the two of you, he’s warm.

Despite the fact that your Agreement has most definitely come to an end, he tolerates you. As ever, it’s impossible to know why or what he might be thinking, and, as ever, you suppose that it’s better not to know. Your roving hand, seeking some purchase while the rest of your body is still about as sturdy as a plate of jelly, brushes the back of his left shoulder, and feels a tear in the cloak. There’s heat underneath, heat that isn’t yours, and your fingers shortly find something hot and wet - a wound. Someone’s stabbed him, it would appear. That’s never happened before. Well, good on them for doing it, whoever it was. They’re more determined than you or anyone you know. 

Perhaps you ought not to be poking and prodding him, though. He takes some umbrage with that, albeit only enough to grumble at you and push you away, stalking away from the cable drum and leaving you to find your cargo pants, and it’ll only occur to you how lucky you were that he didn’t react more aggressively, more  _ violently, _ quite a while later. 

Still, find your cargo pants you do, and you’re in too much of a hurry to pull them on to do anything about the warm, sticky wetness that you feel running down your inner thigh. You hope, too, that the fresh stains on your shirt won’t stand out too much amongst all of the other dirt and wear already on it; you really don’t want to have to explain them to anyone. 

Speaking of whom, it looks as though your friends haven’t quite managed to get enough generators running to open any doors yet. The door’s claxon is jarring and impossible to miss, and you’re certain that you haven’t heard it. They need more time, and the Wraith is already walking away from you with his usual quiet purpose. You’re not sure what else you can do to distract him, unless… 

… Unless you break a rule. 

“... Wait.” You stumble into a run to catch up with him. “Wait. You… You’re hurt.” 

On one hand, helping him would be like a bludgeon to the skull of one of your friends. But on the other, if helping him means that they can escape from him for now, if it means that he becomes somebody else’s problem, it might be worth it. 

But it’s against the rules. You know it, and, judging by the way he turns around to stare at you, so quickly and so sharply that you hurriedly back away from him, he knows it, too. 

Again, he and you share a brief but deeply uneasy standoff, with barely six feet separating you from each other. You’re well within his reach, and you’re sure that you’re both aware of it. Again, you move to reach for him, just as you have done so many times before. 

But it’s against the rules. 

It is a blessing that you are, sensibly, already ready to run from him when he lunges for you. If it weren’t for that, you might not have been able to dive out of the way of his swing, and as you scramble upright onto still-unsteady legs, you curse yourself for your hubris. You’re still cursing yourself as you break into a sprint, because you know that he’s faster than you, and you scarcely avoid another of his crushing blows by hurling yourself with all of your stupid, foolhardy might through the empty window frame of some derelict building. He’s too tall to make it through the gap as quickly as you, and it gives you a few valuable seconds to put some distance between you.

You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have fucking done it, you shouldn’t have pushed your luck. You knew that you shouldn’t have done it, and you still did it. You won’t do it again, that’s for damn sure, and it’s just as you’re thinking this that you hear that god-awful wailing claxon, the sound that simultaneously sets your teeth on edge and sends your heart soaring. 

You scream at your fellow survivors to run as you bolt towards the still-opening doors, and there barely has to be a gap wide enough for one of you to fit through before you’re all clambering through in a blind panic to escape. You don’t dare look behind you to see how close on your heels he is as you and your friends race into the mist beyond the gate, to safety. 

And it’s true that you’re only going to wake up at that wretched campfire again after this, that you’ve only afforded yourself some temporary shred of respite, but it’s better than a kick in the teeth, and a great deal better than whatever the Wraith would have done if he’d caught you. 

It’s those damned rules, though. It’s always the damned rules, and if you don’t step up to test the limits of those rules, if you don’t press and push and prod to find out how much you can get away with, who will? 

 

**END**


End file.
